At Least You Can Read
by The Long n Short of It
Summary: The rumor on everyone's lips: A royal engagement is to be had in Ingary! So why are the future bride and groom the last to know about it?
1. The Butterfly

_Disclaimer:_ We snuck into Studio Ghibli dressed as Howl and Sophie and cornered Mr. Miyazaki in his office. Then we politely explained who we were and why he needed to sign over the rights of _Howl's Moving Castle_ to us. We even brought the paperwork, already filled out! For reasons we can't fathom, he called security on us. So, as of now, we do not officially own _Howl's Moving Castle_. But it's only a matter of time...

By the Way, we don't own Hans Christian Andersen's works, either. Just so you know.

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><p><strong>"At Least You Can Read"<strong>

**Chapter 1: _The Butterfly_**

Sophie traced a finger down the crinkly page of her book.

_"The butterfly wanted to have a sweetheart. Naturally he wanted one of the pretty little flowers,"_ she silently read.

"So Lady Martha," a woman's voice sounded from Sophie's left.

"Yes, Lady Martha," tittered another lady. "We've heard rumors that you... you know..."

"Have eyes for a certain someone…" the first woman continued.

"That you have a sweetheart!" the second woman exclaimed. Sophie's ears were filled with the sound of their laughter.

Lady Martha was Sophie's youngest sister, a petite blonde girl who loved pastries and had a knack for twiddling her thumbs. The two women were Lady Isabella and Lady Jane, nobles that Sophie and her sisters occasionally kept company with.

_"He looked at them; each one was sitting so prim and proper on its stalk, the way a maiden should sit when not engaged. But there were so many to choose from that it proved irksome."_ Sophie read on despite the enthusiastic chatter.

"Oh, did you now?" Martha laughed nervously.

"So? Who is it?" Lady Jane pried.

"You know you can trust us..." Lady Isabella practically cooed.

Martha cleared her throat. "Really, ladies, there isn't anyone. That is, I don't - We're not -"

"Ah, so you admit there _is_ someone!" Lady Jane cried smugly.

"What! Um, I -"

"Oh, I think I know who it is," interrupted a third noble woman. She must have been an acquaintance of Sophie's other sister, Lettie; Sophie did not know her name.

Sophie glanced up from her book to see all of the ladies simultaneously hold their breath as the third woman leaned past Martha to conspiratorially whisper in Lettie's ear.

Lady Lettie, the second eldest, was well-known for her witty tongue. A grin spread across her pretty face as the third woman pulled away. The woman looked at her with excitement.

"Did I guess correctly?"

"What did she say?" Martha pleaded with a mixture of horror and curiosity in her voice. She reached over and grabbed her sister's arm.

Lettie's grin grew mischievous as she patted her carefully arranged dark hair. "How about this?" Lettie bargained. "If you whisper your sweetheart's name into my ear ... I'll tell them so you won't have to!"

"Oh, you're so cruel!" Martha cried in embarrassment.

Sophie glanced down at her book to read the next line. _"The butterfly couldn't be bothered, and so he flew to the daisy..."_

Lady Jane gasped. "Your sweetheart is Sir Michael?"

"Sir Michael! I knew it!" the third woman cheered.

"What? You told them yourself," Lettie replied to the expression on Martha's face.

Martha flushed red to her hairline. "You - You pressured me into it!" she exclaimed, but she giggled, for thinking of Sir Michael always made her happy.

Sophie finally gave up reading _The Butterfly_, condemning him to perch on that daisy for a time. She sat there in amusement, her book of fairy tales cradled upon her lap.

Meetings like this happened often among the noble women of Kingsbury. Once an interesting topic emerged in the conversation, the ladies would latch onto it like vultures. Then they would target someone, making that person the main focus of the conversation, whether that person liked it or not... and whether that person was there or not.

Not all gatherings were as pleasant as this one, however. Not for Sophie. And they certainly held little entertainment without her sisters. Sophie's sisters were like a breath of fresh air wherever they went; even the stiffest of courtiers blunted their edges when her sisters were around.

When her sisters were not present, Sophie found herself stuck attending tedious tea parties or seminars with the _older_ nobles. Even at the age of eighteen, it did not help that Sophie insisted upon wearing a strict high collar and severe hair bun, which contrasted with the current fashion of freer hair and looser collars. She knew of the many whispers calling her "spinster." She also knew that dare she whisper her thoughts back, many people in the courts would be mortified. Sophie may be proper, but she was far from docile.

Calmly, Sophie was adjusting the sleeves of her green dress when Lady Isabella suddenly emitted a high-pitched squeak.

"Oh!" Lady Isabella exclaimed, daintily covering her mouth with a hand when the other ladies looked at her. "So sorry. It's just that I suddenly remembered something I've been dying to tell you! Lady Martha," she said, glancing slyly at the blonde. "Is it not true that Sir Michael and the Crown Prince Howell are good friends?"

Everyone's interest slightly heightened at the mention of the mysterious prince.

Martha blinked. "Why yes, I believe so. In fact, I think they -"

"Splendid!" Lady Isabella interrupted, a glint in her eye. "Then perhaps you can ask Sir Michael about this when you get the chance. I heard ..." her voice dropped to a dramatic whisper, "... that Prince Howell, by order of the King… is going to choose a bride soon!"

The ladies all gasped in shock. There was a tense moment when they all exchanged glances. Then the chatter began.

"Oh my goodness, _Prince Howell_? No way!"

"When?"

"To whom?"

"I have no idea!" Lady Isabella responded. "But I hear very soon! How could you not have heard?"

"I suppose no one would have believed it," Lettie said thoughtfully, tapping her chin.

Martha lifted an eyebrow. "That's because Prince Howell is a lady's man!"

Lady Jane looked at Martha in surprise. The third woman giggled.

"Why Lady Martha ... And I thought you only had eyes for Sir Michael," Lady Jane said.

"No! I do! That is, we've all been subjected to Prince Howell's charm at least once in our lives."

"Subjected? More like blessed," Lady Isabella sighed. "I once accidentally dropped my handkerchief in the Conservatory and suddenly the prince was there. He picked up my handkerchief and, against my will, began to gather me into his arms- !"

"All right, Lady Isabella, time to separate truth from fantasy," Sophie finally could not help but intercede. She smiled at the confused looks. The ladies took a moment to remember that Sophie had been invited and was not technically an eavesdropper.

Martha was the first to recover. "Lady Sophie," she said formally, but with a sincere smile. "I'm curious. You've never told me of your encounters with the prince!"

"Well..." Sophie began. She paused as memories of a meeting years ago began to resurface. "Hmm. Actually, I don't think I've had _any_ encounters with him."

"_What?_" Lady Isabella said. She arched an eyebrow. "You've been at Court for this long and you _still_ haven't...?"

"I'm not surprised. You've always been very careful," Lettie said with a knowing smile. Sophie smiled back. "Prince Howell would certainly be in for a surprise if he tried anything on you."

"If," the third woman repeated.

Lettie looked at her sharply.

"No, not like that!" the woman objected. "What I mean to say is ... that is ..." The woman threw her hands over her face and pretended to be distraught. "We must be the only women in the court that Prince Howell hasn't noticed!"

Sophie blinked. "Is that not a good thing?"

"No, he definitely remembers me!" Lady Isabella protested. "After all, he took me in his arms- !"

"Oh, he's so handsome!" the third woman sighed.

"I hear he's an odd one, disappearing into his rooms all of the time," Lady Jane commented.

"No commitments," Lady Martha added.

"Great legs!"

All of them, even Sophie, blushed.

There was a knock on the parlor door.

Lady Isabella leaned back gracefully in her chair and pursed her lips.

"Now, I wonder who that could be," she said with a frown. She waved a servant over and instructed her to see who it was.

The servant soon came back and reported that it was a Royal Messenger.

"A Royal Messenger!" Lady Isabella gasped. "Oh goodness, don't just stand there. Let him in at once!"

The six noble women stood with a rustle of skirts and waited for the Royal Messenger with curiosity. He strode in wearing silk white gloves with golden embroidery, a sign that he was bearing important, good news.

Placing a fist over his chest, the Royal Messenger bowed a polite bow meant for all the noble women in the room. They gently curtsied back.

The Royal Messenger reached into the black leather satchel at his hip and pulled out six envelopes of thick, rich paper, the seal of the King's Council upon each of them. The ladies' eyes lit up as he cleared his throat and opened a small scroll.

"By order of the King of Ingary, specially prepared by the Head Sorceress Suliman, these invitations are to be carefully and indiscriminately given to those chosen to attend this Occasion. His Royal Highness gives you his best regards and looks forward to your attendance."

The women exchanged quizzical glances as the Royal Messenger concluded his brief speech.

The Royal Messenger handed each lady an envelope with a slight bow. Sophie, as usual, was last.

No sooner did they hear the door click shut behind him that they began talking among themselves and quickly opening their envelopes. Sophie pulled out a small letter opener and carefully worked it around the seal, her excitement as great and heart-pounding as the others'.

Lady Isabella was the first to open her envelope and pull out her letter. She quickly unfolded the crisp sheet and scanned the top.

"It says, _"For..."_ and that's it," she pouted, reading the introduction in mild disappointment. "It's not even personally addressed to me. Are we supposed to write our ... oh gracious!" Lady Isabella gasped, nearly dropping her letter.

"What on - !" Lettie exclaimed at her own letter.

Lady Jane jumped in surprise. "Oh my!"

The five girls eagerly crowded around each other. Even Sophie moved a few anticipating steps closer as she sliced through one side of the envelope.

"Did you see that? My name appeared after the _'For...!'_"

"Mine, too!"

"_Just_ like someone was writing it."

"Magic!"

"Wow, the Head Sorceress Suliman. She's fantastic!"

"Here. Let's see if the name changes!"

Martha and Lady Jane quickly exchanged letters. They stared at the names for a long moment.

"Nothing!"

"I suppose that the spells on these are designed to make the names permanent," Martha said thoughtfully.

A startled shriek of surprise stiffened the spines of everyone in the room. Sophie winced, the sound so startling her that she accidentally nicked her finger with the letter opener.

Lettie turned her head sharply. "Lady Isabella, please control yourself!"

Sophie smiled inwardly at her sister, remembering the days when Lettie had been at the receiving end of a reprimand. After wrapping her bloodied finger in a handkerchief, she swiftly slid the letter out of its envelope to see what had so upset Lady Isabella.

"It's ... It's a _wedding_ invitation!" Lady Isabella announced, her voice tight with an odd mix of outrage and delight. "Prince Howell is getting married!"

"What?" the women cried simultaneously.

"So soon?"

"And the invitation doesn't even say to whom!" Lady Isabella accused. "Dratted, _dratted_ lucky girl!" she mumbled.

"I wager her family bribed the Royals," the third woman declared.

Sophie briskly unfolded her invitation before Lady Isabella's words had a chance to sink in. There was no _"For..."_ at the top. Instead, though just as the others had described, the words _"To the Lady Sophie"_ were magically written at the top in elegant script, letter by letter.

Sophie furrowed her brow as her gaze dropped to the brief sentences below.

"This is outrageous!" Lady Isabella exclaimed.

There was a light series of raps on the door, and the servant opened it to permit two women and a gentleman, who rushed in with an energetic step. The man looked like he would have preferred to stay outside had not one of the ladies firmly wrapped her arm around his. All three held envelopes.

"I see you got them, too!" the lady holding the man's arm exclaimed. "Royal Messengers are everywhere and the whole palace is in a mess!"

"Prince Howell - getting married!" said the other lady.

"No one knows what to think!"

"Some of us think that it's not such a big deal," the man drawled, raising his eyes heavenward. The woman on his arm smacked him with her envelope.

The letter shook in Sophie's hand.

Sophie slowly lowered herself back into the chair, her features a mask of shock. The noisy room around her faded into a droning blur. Her wide brown eyes threatened to glaze over as she read the sentences on her letter over and over again.

_"To the Lady Sophie:_

_Congratulations!_

_You have been chosen to be Prince Howell's bride._

_You are to be present in the Royal Conservatory at precisely twelve o'clock noon_

_this following day._

_Sincerely,_

_His Royal Highness, King of Ingary"_

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><p>This is a joint story by <em>beyond the shadows<em> (author of "Howl's Love Spell") and _Tek Sonay_ (author of "To Steal a Heart").

Chapter creation (starting with this chapter) shall alternate as follows: Tek, beyond, Tek, beyond, etc. Check out our profile to learn more! :D


	2. The Candles

**Chapter 2: _The Candle_**

_"There was once a big wax candle that was well aware of itself." _The red-haired young man looked up from his reading with a roguish grin. "Did ya hear that, Howell? It's talkin' about you!"

The Crown Prince of Ingary, currently sporting soft blonde tresses, leaned into the common room to glare at his friend. "Back to reading, commoner. That provincial accent of yours will ruin our scheme." He ducked back into one his many walk-in closets, his voice muffled by the rows of clothes and the thick carpet. "One slip-up on our way out of the palace, and it will be confinement to the highest room in the tallest tower for us both!"

"Highest fer you, _Yer Majesty_," the prince's friend mockingly drew out the last two words. "I'll probably be thrown in the lowest room in the darkest dungeon."

"All the more reason to practice," Prince Howell said practically. Brightly colored tunics, fine-woven breeches, and various other expensive pieces of royal cloth flew out of the closet, rejected by their fickle master. A childish yell of frustration followed them. "I have nothing to wear, Cal!"

Calcifer Kindle, official friend to the Prince of Ingary since childhood, laughed at the typical behavior of his vain friend. "Now ya know that's not true. I've dozens of friends who only own the clothes on their backs." He looked around at the cluttered room with its mountains and hills of clothes. "Yer decidedly not one of 'em."

"That is not what I meant, and you know it, petulant peasant." Howell emerged from his closet in his casual clothes. The silk white tunic flowed over black pants. Gold thread decorated the sides of his pants and the edges of his shirt. After a moment's contemplation of his reflection in a full length mirror, he grabbed a gold ribbon from one of the piles and tied his shoulder-length hair back. With a smug grin at his obvious perfection gracing his lips, he turned to his friend. "If I decide to play the part of a commoner, I will be the best commoner that ever existed! Cornelius the Deceiver himself would weep at my performance," he said, naming a popular actor of the time. "Such a performance demands the perfect outfit."

"I'm already weepin' at the thought of all the food we're gonna miss tonight," Cal said with a mournful look and a dejected rub of his stomach. "Why tonight of _all _nights? You might get tired of them fancy feasts, but I sure don't."

"Fourth paragraph." Howell flicked his fingers, and the lettering began to glow. "Read."

Cal shook his head at the casual use of magic by the prince. Howell's proficiency at magic was one of the best kept secrets at Ingary Castle. Even the king did not fully comprehend his son's talent and power. Cal was forever urging his friend to exercise more caution when using magic outside of the lab hidden in the prince's apartments; Howell was forever ignoring him.

"Read!" The imperious command cut through Cal's thoughts.

"_But there's somethin'... something... far more important than food!" said the wax candle. "Festivity! Ta ... To see the radiance and to be radiant oneself! There's go-" _

Howell interrupted the halting rendition of _The Candles_. "Radiance! Festivity! That's why we are going to skip the feast and bless the villagers with our presence at their quaint but lovely May Day festival." He twirled around the room with an imaginary partner, twisting his head to give her a view of his best profile. He then began play-acting a conversation with her for the benefit of Cal, using a falsetto voice and batting his eyelashes for one part and switching to a deep voice and mysterious look for the other.

"Oh, sir! You are just too handsome ... and such a great dancer! Tee-hee!"

"I know, my dear. And may I say, it is a joy to dance with one as lovely and light-footed as yourself. It is like dancing with the wind."

"Tee-hee! You are too kind, mysterious stranger who has blessed my life. If I may, what can I call you?"

Here Howell contorted his face into such a tortured but debonair expression that he had Cal rolling on the floor in laughter. He looked deep into the imaginary eyes of his fair companion. "I am afraid that you can only know me as the most handsome and mysterious stranger you have ever met. I must go."

"Nooo! Oh, he was so handsome!"

The prince pretended to swoon in proper courtly fashion, with a glance to ensure an audience before collapsing gracefully to the floor. Then he leapt up, chest heaving, to bow to the applause of his audience.

"Bravo! Bravo, yer Royal Vanity!" Cal laughingly said. Leaning back on a pile of clothes like a chair, he sighed, suddenly becoming serious. "But why the charade? I understand my havin' to seem like a noble in order to get out of the palace unknown, but why do we have ta hide once we're out on the town? Wouldn't _Prince of Ingary _be more impactful than _Mysterious Stranger_?"

"That is _Handsome and Mysterious Stranger_ to you," Howell said with mock severity. "And we have been over the reasons many times, my neglectful neanderthal. One -"

"One. Prince Howell would never make it past the Inner Gate undisguised," a familiar voice interrupted. Howell and Cal smiled in welcome as the youthful figure entered the room. He was one of the select few who needed no invitation to enter the inner sanctum of the Prince's rooms. "Two. While we may be used to the perspective of townsfolk, the prince is not. To him, the commoner world is as intriguing as the magical one. Three. The prince loves acting and adventure. This excursion will provide both. Four. The prince prefers compliments to his beauty and not his title." The young man slightly bowed his fashionably cut brown hair to his liege. "Have I forgotten anything, Your Grace?"

Howell inclined his head back in proper royal fashion. "Only point five, Sir Michael," he flashed an unrepentant grin at the red-headed Cal. "Five. Because I said so!"

Cal grabbed a white satin stocking from behind his head and waved it in surrender. He switched to his fake noble accent. "I concede defeat, your Royal Pompous Pants!" Going back to his usual accent, he sighed. "We'll do it yer way."

"Of course we will, you coarse craftsman. When was there ever any other option?"

Sir Michael laughed at the playful banter between the two friends. Had any other individual spoken in such a way to his prince and friend, he would gladly have challenged him to a duel. However, Sir Michael knew that the name-calling was a time-honored tradition and a symbol of the deep bond between the two. He felt honored to be considered their mutual friend and maker of mischief. Within reason, of course. Thinking of reason reminded him why he had called this evening.

"Here." He tossed a bundle of clothes into the arms of Howell. "Try these on for size. I figured you would be at your wits' end trying to find the perfect outfit by now."

Prince Howell's face brightened. "Finally! A beautiful soul who understands!" He was in and out of the closet so quickly that Cal and Sir Michael exchanged knowing looks. _Magic. _

Howell was too busy admiring his perfection and new clothes to see their shared glance. He stretched, pulled, and patted the fabric with an expert hand, muttering under his breath like a professional tailor. "Rough, homespun cloth. Unevenly cut. Dirt embedded in the fabric so probably worn more than once. Dyed in natural materials - from Mount Lassoon, I believe. No name brand." A quick twirl of his hand cleaned the material and evened out the color. "It is perfect, Sir Michael! I look like a proper peasant now."

Sir Michael struggled to keep a straight face. "If you'll pardon my saying so, Prince Howell, but most peasants don't embroider their tunics in gold."

Howell looked at the designs magically stitching themselves into his shirt. "Quite right," he said with a sigh. The gold disappeared, fading to a light blue that contrasted nicely with the dark blue cloth. A faint hint of silver accented the designs, but a fierce look from Howell convinced his friends to ignore it.

A knock at the outer chamber door startled the three companions. With a panicked look on his face, the prince and his peasant outfit disappeared into the closet. All would be ruined if someone saw his disguise.

Cal burrowed into the center of the pile of clothes he had been leaning against. Only his purple eyes showed. He avoided snobby nobles whenever possible.

Sir Michael, knowing it was left to him, squared his shoulders and marched to the door. He opened it to reveal a Royal Messenger, wearing silk white gloves with gold embroidery and holding a thick letter in his hands.

_What is it with royalty and gold thread? _the knight wondered.

Before the man could read any messages - or get a glimpse of the prince - Sir Michael whisked the letter from his hands, bowed, and closed the door in his face. It was done so politely and efficiently that the Royal Messenger could only sputter, shrug, and then walk down the corridor.

"All clear!" Sir Michael called as he ambled back into the common room. Cal's head arose from the top of the pile, a pyramid of clothes gracing it like a hat. Howell slowly crept from the closet, as if he were truly a peasant caught in the prince's dressing room. "Letter for you."

Howell grabbed it from Sir Michael, instantly recognizing the familiar tingle of magic as old Suliman's. Another message from his father, no doubt. He watched impatiently as the words etched themselves into the paper, letter by agonizing letter.

"_To the Crown Prince of Ingary, Howell..." _

The prince could take no more. He wanted to be in town, admiring the new sights and being admired in turn, not losing precious minutes of his life waiting on a slow writer. Throwing the letter over his shoulder, he beckoned to his two friends. "I will read the message when we get back. Plenty of time for official business tomorrow. Right now, we have a festival to enjoy!"

The thick, rich paper floated to the ground to the cries of _Radiance! Festivity! _and _Shut yer gob, you jabbering jabberwocky! _The elegant script continued to flow across the page, ignorant of the empty room.

"_To the Crown Prince of Ingary, Howell: _

_I have chosen your bride as promised - or warned, depending on how you perceive the situation. _

_You are to be present in the Royal Conservatory at precisely twelve o'clock noon this following day. _

_Being late or causing any inconvenience would be most unwise. _

_Sincerely, _

_Head Sorceress Suliman, _

_as authorized by His Royal Highness, King of Ingary"_


	3. The Ugly Duckling

**Chapter 3 - **_**The Ugly Duckling**_

_'Oh my,'_ Lady Sophie thought.

She gingerly held the edges of her letter, which trembled like butterfly wings under her shaky fingers. The elegant script of her name wobbled like a lily in a pond. Her eyes flitted down to the king's signature. _'Oh dear, your Majesty, you've made a mistake.'_

Sophie tried to remember a time when she had done anything to warrant this kind of response, anything that might draw the attention of the Royal Family or someone in close connection with them. But there was nothing.

She could not conceive a single plausible reason why _she_, of all women, had been chosen to be the bride of the prince! Apparently, Prince Howell was desperate.

_'But... he can marry any woman he wants_,' another side of her reasoned.

Her imagination was suddenly teased by a scenario involving the king's council. She pictured the council members presenting the king with a silver dish of paper slips. Their blue-clad fingers were crossed as they thought about their daughters or nieces. In her mind, the King pressed a silk handkerchief to his eyelids and delicately pulled a slip from the dish.

_'A large dish,'_ Sophie added, thinking of all the eligible young women in the kingdom. When the king looked at the slip and read her name aloud, all of the council members gawked and asked, _"Who?"_

A small chuckle escaped Sophie's mouth. Would the council really resort to such a method? She reached up to touch her high collar briefly, glancing down at her lap to see a book of fairy tales instead of a book on current fashion.

_'Absolutely,'_ she decided. _'Oh dear, what will they think of me?'_

She peered at her name again, quietly laughing until tears pricked her eyes, and she was obliged to lean against the elegant wooden chair back for support. She wondered how the council would react if she returned the letter and politely said, "Second time's the charm."

Lady Martha spotted Sophie and stepped away from the group, a meaningful expression of amusement on her face. "I know, I know, we get excited over everything. But this is a huge development!"

"Haha - hmm?" Sophie blinked up at her younger sister. "Oh! Yes, haha, you're all very silly! It's not that," Sophie giggled, attempting to compose herself as she handed Martha the letter. "It appears that our prince is out of luck today."

"What's this?" Martha smiled. "They didn't spell your name wrong again, did they?" She looked down at the parchment curiously. Two seconds passed.

Then Martha gasped so deeply that Sophie was amazed that the letter was not sucked into her mouth.

"Oh goodness. _Oh my goodness_!"

"Shh shh! Not so loud." Sophie rolled her eyes. "Yes, apparently I'm getting married. Honestly, can you believe they'd make a mistake about something this important?"

"Congratulations? Bride, _bride_? Sophie, do you realize -? The _prince_?"

Sophie laughed lightly, but Martha gripped her arm and stared at her. Sophie felt a twinge of alarm.

"Martha, silly bird, they made a mistake. You see that, don't you?"

Martha released her to fan her face. "I need to sit down!"

Sophie stood and helped Martha into the chair, still struggling to contain her amusement in the face of her distressed sister.

"You two all right?"

Lettie's cerulean skirts swished as she touched the back of her hand to her sisters' foreheads. Sophie swatted her away.

"Don't mother-hen us, Lettie. Martha's just a bit unsettled. You simply won't believe this ridiculous letter they gave me!"

Lettie plucked it from Martha's hand.

"Ridiculous?" Martha sputtered, "Oh, read it, Lettie, I don't know what to think! Sophie, ridiculous? I don't - I'm not sure _what_ it is. A blessing or a curse?"

"Neither," Sophie said. "It's a mistake."

Lettie gasped above them. "Oh goodness. _Oh my goodness!_" Her eyes flitted rapidly across the parchment.

"Is everything all right?" Lady Isabella hailed to them in concern. Several heads turned towards them.

The three sisters glanced at each other. Martha rapidly started fanning herself with her letter.

Lettie looked smoothly over at Lady Isabella, though up close Sophie could practically see the wheels whirling in her mind.

"Yes... everything's fine." Lettie glanced down at Martha, then turned her head again. "Lady Martha isn't feeling well. She's sensitive to May pollen. The sudden excitement was simply too much."

"Oh, poor darling," Lady Jane sympathized.

"I hope you recover your health, Lady Martha..." Lady Isabella offered, eyeing the sisters somewhat skeptically. The other nobles echoed her condolences.

Lettie gripped Sophie's hand and put her mouth near Sophie's ear. "We cannot talk here. Let's go to my quarters first."

Sophie sighed. Lettie gave her a conflicted look.

"Your book, Sophie," Martha mumbled breathlessly as Sophie helped her up from the chair.

Sophie glanced down at her feet to see her book of fairy tales lying on the carpet. She picked it up and then re-adjusted her handkerchief around her cut, realizing that her finger was throbbing.

"We're going to settle our sister somewhere she can rest," Lettie announced, strolling past Lady Jane and the third woman.

"Good idea," Lady Jane agreed.

"Wait, Lady Lettie!" the third woman said in excitement, clapping her hands. "Can we visit your mother to see if she's heard the news? You know how au courant* Lady Fanny is of the happenings around the palace. Please?"

A distracted smile came to Lettie's lips. She signaled for a servant to open the door. "All right. Give me thirty minutes?"

"We'll meet here!" Lady Jane called after her.

Lettie, trailed by Martha holding Sophie's arm for support, strode out the door.

The man, whose arm was linked with his lady's, thoughtfully observed Sophie exit the room. He pressed the back of his hand to his forehead.

"Oh dear. I'm not feeling well either. Now can I go back to my chambers?"

"Don't be such a wuss," the woman on his arm scolded.

* * *

><p>As soon as they stepped into the central palace halls, Sophie almost retreated back to the parlour.<p>

The noblewoman with the gentleman had not lied - the palace _was_ in an uproar. Every corner they turned, the three sisters met friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike, who brandished invitations and clamored, "Have you heard? Have you heard?" to anyone who would listen.

"Yes," Lettie replied to each one who asked, or "Shocking!" How they managed to avoid being drawn into conversation might be called miraculous by some, but to the sisters it was simply knowing the value of a cleverly placed word.

Sophie, on the whole, remained silent. At least on the outside.

Although she was acknowledged numerous times, Sophie honed her mind on her destination, praying that her growing whirlwind of thoughts would stop centralizing around a certain letter. Or a certain prince. Palace gossip was infectious.

The smooth marble tiling was swallowed up by each swish of her green dress and click of her heels. She studied every step: _left, right, left, right..._

"I'm sure that the prince's bride must be very special to have captured his heart," someone remarked to Sophie's left.

"Let's hope that Prince Howell will settle down once he's married," came a veiled comment from behind a pillar. "Parenthood might balance his flighty nature."

Sophie's face instantly reddened. Captured his heart? Parenthood? The more she heard, the more convinced she was that the situation had to be taken care of as soon as possible. The King and his Council needed to choose a new bride before word got out and she found herself in a royal mess.

Immediately upon arriving at Lettie's quarters, Sophie strode straight to the bedchamber at the back. Lettie dismissed all the servants except her head servant, Grace, who was quietly instructed to take vigil in the common room. If anyone should request to see Lettie or her sisters, that person was to be deferred.

Sophie sat down on a quaint, cushiony chair by the window. She wished she hadn't. Every muscle in her body seemed to be twitching in agitation; her very core was unsettled. She leapt to her feet and began pacing across the sap green carpet, her book of fairy tales clutched tightly in her hands.

As Martha plopped down on the bed, Lettie came into the room like a flurry, shutting the door behind her. She faced her sisters.

"Who has the letter?"

Sophie slid it out of her pocket and dropped it into Lettie's hands. She then abruptly turned on her heel and paced the other way.

"Oh." Lettie perched beside Martha. Martha held the other side of the letter as Lettie smoothed it out.

Lettie cleared her throat out of delicate habit and began reading the letter aloud.

"_'To the Lady Sophie... Congratulations! You have been chosen to be Prince Howell's bride.'_"

Sophie winced.

"_'You -'_"

"Oh my goodness!" Martha squeaked, her hand tugging at the letter.

"Martha..." Lettie warned.

"Sorry! Continue."

Lettie scanned the letter and found her place. "_'You are to be present in the Royal Conservatory at precisely twelve o'clock noon this following day. Sincerely, His Royal Highness, King of Ingary.'_" Lettie paused, letting her eyes re-trace the authoritative script. She shook her head. "It's simple and clear. There don't appear to be any hidden clues or errors."

"The name at the top is a glaring error," Sophie retorted, facing her sisters. "Lettie, you'd know. Aren't there any other women in the castle who share my name? Isn't there a Sophia or Josephine or a Hattie?"

"A Hattie?"

"It happens."

"Well... a Harriet recently moved into the South Wing. She goes by Hattie, but she has few established connections yet. And the only Lady Josephine I know is married. There's an earl with a daughter named Sophia..."

"She's it!"

"...but they live two kingdoms away, and the girl is eight years old and promised to some duke. I'm sorry, Sophie! We'll figure this out."

Sophie groaned. She paced a few steps towards the window and bit her lip, furrowing her brow as she tried to make sense of the situation.

"Sophie, you're not... keeping anything from us?" Martha ventured, sharing a glance with Lettie. "I mean, I've always wondered if you actually went to all those tea parties. And those times when you excused yourself to go read a book…."

"…you weren't secretly meeting the prince, were you?" Lettie finished, tilting her head curiously.

Sophie whirled on them in shock.

"Or meeting with someone who _knows_ the prince!" Martha rushed to add. "I mean, we all know how connections work."

"Absolutely not!" Sophie cried indignantly. She felt a rush of anger and suddenly remembered the gossip she had heard. Several people already believed that she, the "bride," had used surreptitious methods to get betrothed to a member of the Royal Family.

"Oh honestly, Sophie, we're not saying you got yourself engaged on _purpose_," Lettie retorted, passing Martha the letter. "It's just that... Martha and I both know you tend to underestimate yourself. You likely talked to someone and made an impression without realizing it."

"Can you think of anyone you spoke with who might have connections with the Royal Family?" Martha asked. "Ooh! Maybe you met the prince in disguise!"

"No!" Sophie said, shaking her head. She briefly squeezed her eyes shut and tried to remember. "No... no, no, I don't think so. I don't know!"

Overwhelmed, the eldest dropped her book of fairy tales onto the chair and grabbed a lavender-scented cushion off the bed, burying her face in it to keep from screaming. Never, _never_ had she dreamed that she would find herself engaged like this. So many times, she had imagined her future husband-to-be proposing to her in a quiet, fragrant garden. Or their first meeting might involve him leaping off his horse to save her from a runaway carriage. Once, she had even entertained the idea that the palace had been overrun by an enemy army, and when two soldiers tried to accost her, a handsome young rebel came and whisked her away.

What she never expected was for the entire kingdom to know of her engagement before _she_ did.

Sophie pressed the cushion tighter against her face and sunk her nails into the material. And as for her husband-to-be? Dukes, commoners, bookkeepers, and even men under curses had emerged in her imagination, but Crown Prince Howell Pendragon? The entire notion of marrying him was absurd - for numerous reasons!

First of all, he was a womanizer.

Sophie had always dreamed of commitment in her marriage; Prince Howell did not even seem to know the meaning of the word.

Secondly, the prince was handsome.

She had already heard the gossip and jealousy that sprouted from word of a mysterious bride. Once the people knew it was just plain Lady Sophie, oh, how loud she pictured the cries of protest!

Third of all, the prince thrived on festivity. She was accustomed to quiet. There was also the issue that he loved beautiful clothes, so she would have to forgo simple clothing in order to represent the most current and fashionable styles.

Oh yes, and there was also the fact that Howell was a _prince!_ Who was she?

Most importantly, they were complete strangers.

"But Sophie, isn't this like one of your fairy tales come true? It's incredible! We might soon be related to _royalty!_ You'll be a _princess!_" Lettie exclaimed merrily.

Martha's voice was encouraging. "And Prince Howell is incredibly handsome! Your children will be beautiful, and you'll be able to eat and wear whatever you like, and people will bow and curtsy every time you pass -"

"I don't want to marry him!" Sophie yelled, flinging the pillow across the room. Lettie and Martha stared at her in shock as she walked up and yanked the letter out of their hands. "There are hundreds of women in this kingdom perfectly willing and eager - let the council choose one of them instead!"

"Wait, don't!" Lettie cried as Sophie marched towards the door. Lettie leapt up from her bed and dashed to block Sophie's path. "Wait!"

"I'm going to speak to someone in charge!"

"The Royal Council keeps a strict schedule! Your best chance to talk to someone is tomorrow. At the Royal Conservatory. Like the letter said!"

Martha twiddled her thumbs. She stared at her sisters with large, gray eyes. "The letter cannot be a mistake. I mean, choosing a bride for the prince is serious business, right? They cannot afford mistakes."

"They've already sent out the wedding invitations, for goodness sakes!" Lettie said in exasperation. "That should prove more than anything that they're prepared to settle with _you_ - their _choice_!"

"What if they filled a bowl with paper slips and asked the king to randomly pull a name, hmm? Did you ever think of that?" Sophie retorted, angry at the council for so casually flipping her world inside out. "Besides, I don't care if they think I'm the "right choice." Does my opinion not matter at all? Who _asked _me?"

"Sophie..." Lettie tried. It had been a long time since she had seen Sophie get this angry. And since Sophie's anger was directed towards political individuals... Sophie's reputation was at stake, and Lettie was worried what her older sister might do.

"No! I refuse to be subjected to their whims! Lettie, Martha - " Sophie paused, and for a moment, her sisters glimpsed the fear underneath - "this is my _life_ we are discussing here. My heart, body, soul - they would all go into this marriage. I might have to surrender all three of them. And to who? A prince who... who dyes his hair a different color every two weeks!" Sophie ended with a sputter. She whirled around and stomped back towards the chair.

"W-What are you doing?" Martha asked in concern as Sophie shoved the letter into her pale green pocket and snatched up her book. The pages fluttered quickly away from Sophie's thumb.

"Looking for inspiration! Here," she said, her finger pinning a sentence. "_I will fly straight to them..._ Perfect! _I will fly straight to them, those royal birds, and they will peck me to death be- cause... I'm so ugly and yet dare... approach them..._" Sophie stared in disbelief at the irony of the words, feeling the security of her anger fizzle out under a heavy, sludgy wash of dismay.

Lettie quickly took the book from her and flipped back a few pages.

"Now that won't do, Sophie! I have just the thing for you." She cleared her throat and read brightly. "_Be quick! Out with your toes! A well-brought up duck places his feet wide apart, just like his father and mother. Now, then! Bow your necks and say, 'Quack!'"_

The last word rang out in the bedroom.

A long silence followed.

Lettie frowned and peered at the page. "Who _wrote _this story?"

"A very popular author, no doubt," Martha replied, trying to recover.

Lettie lifted her head as Martha walked over and plucked the book out of her hands. Martha glanced at the title. "_'The Ugly Duckling.'_" Martha turned two pages, this time forward. Unlike her sisters, she carefully read the line in her head before reading it out loud.

"Ah," she smiled. "_And the duckling sat in the corner in low spirits. Then he started thinking of the fresh air and the sunshine._"

Martha carefully closed the book of fairy tales and handed it to Sophie with a sigh. "Sophie, what you need right now is your favorite place in the gardens. This whole situation..."

"I know," Sophie said moodily. Her lungs squeezed in a breath as her emotions threatened to rise up and smother her.

"Don't think about it!" Lettie warned, swatting her arm. "Let me do that for now. I'll see what I can find out at mother's. And no, I won't tell her if she doesn't already know," she added, seeing the panicked expressions on her sisters' faces.

"Just go to the Royal Gardens by the Inner Gate and read," Martha said to Sophie. "Or relax. Or think. Better yet, don't think! You just need time alone. The gardens should be empty, especially with the Feast tonight."

"The Feast?" Sophie blanched. "What if they announce I'm the bride?"

"They won't!" Lettie hurriedly eased. "They're far too concerned about their image! They would have contacted you by this point to dress you up otherwise."

One at a time, Sophie's sisters threw their arms around her tense frame and tightly embraced her. Then they nudged her out the door.

"Just do that invisible walk like you do," Martha whispered as Lettie talked to her servant Grace. "The nobles won't notice you enough to bother you."

Sophie could only hope.

As she walked down the corridor towards the Royal Gardens, Sophie thought about how lovely it would be to simply follow Martha's suggestion and read in her favorite niche besides the hedges. She pondered the wonder of letting every care and worry flit away like the butterflies among the flowerbeds.

Sophie only glanced back once. Then she took a turn. She could only hope that Martha and Lettie would not check for her in the gardens. Because Sophie knew where she was headed, and it wasn't to sniff the roses.

* * *

><p>*au courant: basically French for "aware of current events" or "with the current." I usually try not to put unfamiliar words in the text, but this word did such a perfect job describing Fanny that I couldn't resist. :)<p> 


	4. Little Tiny

**Chapter 4: _Little Tiny  
><em>**

"Clear!" The whispered call echoed in the chamber.

The prince glided past Calcifer, smacking the back of his head on the way. "You trying to alert the whole castle?" he hissed. "Use the hand signals we practiced, loudmouth."

Cal glared and used a very impolite hand gesture in response, earning him another smack from the ever faithful Sir Michael.

"Manners," the knight whispered.

"Just keeping in character," Calcifer muttered. "Treating him like a commoner and all that."

Finding it beneath his dignity to respond, Howell concentrated on moving swiftly and silently to the next column. _Magic would make this so much simpler ... but then the old witch would be all over me. _He took a deep breath. _Hard way, it is. _

Fate seemed to be on his side. Everybody was in a tizzy about something or other. Howell didn't care what it was, so long as it distracted people from their creeping figures.

Howell smiled in triumph as they neared the last major hurdle between him and an evening of blessed anonymity: the Great Room. A straight march down the middle would take him through the Outer Gates and into an evening of revelry and admiration. He turned the corner, breathless with anticipation ... and then stopped cold.

Cal and Michael crouched in the shadows next to him.

"Oh boy," Cal said, not even bothering to lower his voice. "That's a looooot of people."

The entire upper class must have conspired against their prince's happiness, for they filled the room with their smells and their sounds and their noise.

Howell punched the ground lightly. _Stupid ants. Teeming mindlessly between me and my goal. _

Sir Michael leaned between the prince and his friend. "This is bad. With so many jewels on display, the guards will be keeping a special eye on commoners."

_Fancy, overdressed ants!_

"New plan. Since this room is take, our next best option is the gate near the western waterway," Sir Michael continued. He pointed left to a dark doorway just inside the Great Room. "That's our next target. If we hug the walls and stick to the shadows, we should be able to make it unnoticed."

"Should?" Calcifer sounded outraged. "I've put up with too much for this night to bank on a _should_. Any way to up those odds?"

Howell tuned out their bickering, instead watching the crowd as one observes the tides. A bobbing green item caught his attention. A woman had entered the Great Room from the right and was making her way through the crowds unnoticed. She made it look effortless.

"Boys," Howell interrupted the two. "Follow the green one's lead. She's our ticket out of here."

"Huh?"

The two followed Howell's finger. Cal scoffed.

Michael narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. "She does seem to be headed our way."

"Here we go," Howell muttered. Without another word, he straightened and entered the fray one step behind the passing green figure. The next few minutes required more concentration than most of his spells. The prince grimaced, for both focus and disguise.

_I am a floating blue suit. I am a plain person, slipping through the crowd. I am just another ant, pay me no mind. _

Mantra after mantra flitted through his mind, hoping to divert even the mental attention of the crowd. He focused on the slim back weaving through the crowd before him, with its perfect posture and unfashionable hair style. A glimmer of admiration wormed its way through his tense emotions.

_She does have the advantage of plainness on her side_ ... he mused. _Though only since she tries so hard to cover her natural beauty._ Howell prided himself on being able to differentiate the unpolished diamonds from the rocks.

Fragments of conversation distracted him from his contemplation of the green-clad noble.

_My name seems to be on everyone's lips. __Just another typical evening, I suppose. _Mentions of "letters" and "bride" confused him, however. _I wonder ... are they fighting over me?_

Howell remembered to think "plain" a fraction before his smug look gave away his disguise.

_Focus, prince. You can accept their love letters later. _

The woman successfully made it to the other side and ducked into a passage, Howell and his two companions close behind.

The three regrouped inside a doorway, quietly shaking hands in congratulations. Michael pantomimed that he would take the lead. The other two nodded.

The three friends smiled in exhilaration as they expertly navigated the twisting castle passageways. Hearts pumping, breath quickening, feet running ... years of childhood games had prepared them for higher stake games such as this one.

Howell was grinning at a silly face Cal was pulling at him when Michael grabbed the commoner's collar and yanked him to a stop. Signaling silence, he pointed ahead. A green figure was pacing the passage before them.

Cal's face asked the same question the knight and the prince were wondering: _How did she get ahead of us? _

Cal signaled a question: _Go around?_

Michael shook his head grimly: _No other choice. Wait? _

Howell shrugged. Rolling his eyes, Michael changed the signal to an order: _Wait._

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Sophie forced herself to admit the obvious. She was lost.

"Shameful," she muttered. "You call yourself a courtier? You were practically raised here."

The words from the letter started to echo through her mind again. Sensing its opportunity, despair began to creep from its dark corner ... wrapping around her throat, stealing her breath, freezing her heart ...

"No!" she shook herself and started pacing. Movement would keep it at bay. _That's right, dear. Just keep moving. _

"Think!" she commanded herself. "Intelligence is supposed to be your strong point."

_Ok. I got lost because I'm upset. Blinded by emotions. Which is ridiculous, because this will all be over after tomorrow. I'm so plain - it's obvious we're a bad match. Just like the story... _

"Little Tiny!" she voiced, laughing at the connection. _Except Prince Howell is the beautiful one, and I'm the toad or the mole. He'll fly away on a sparrow, find a flower princess, and live happily ever after with the pretty people.  
><em>

She turned on her heel, her skirt flaring as she faced the other wall.

_But what if they have some nefarious reason for choosing you ... what if the prince was afraid of his bride outshining his own beauty ...? and what if they force you to marry _because _you're plain? _

The force of the argument froze her mid-stride. She thought of the many times she had seen the prince - always in glittering finery, always sporting an arrogant expression.

_"_Great Fires of Mantle, it's possible."_  
><em>

She forced herself to draw a deep breath and begin pacing again.

_Sophie, _she reasoned. _This just confirms your course of action. Find Sir Michael. Give him a message for the prince. A collaborative objection at tomorrow's meeting should free us both from this dreadful possibility. _

Newly inspired, Sophie stomped her foot and recited her sister's advice, "Be quick! Out with your toes! Bow your neck and say, 'Quack!'"

The last word echoed embarrassingly through the corridor, bringing Sophie back to her senses.

She looked around sheepishly, desperately hoping no one had heard her improper outburst. Her face flamed red as she caught sight of some dark figures peeking around the bend. Instinctively, she turned her back to them, desperately hoping she had not been recognized. _How long have they been standing there?_

Trying to hide the fact that she had discovered them, Sophie stiffly walked around the corner to the nearest doorway and entered the room. As soon as the door closed behind her, she crouched, pressing the right side of her face to the floor. In this position, she could see the hall's floor through the thin gap under the door.

Indignation began to replace embarrassment, making her feel uncomfortably hot. _How dare they! Common courtesy dictates at least a polite cough to signal your presence. Let's see how they like it ... _Sophie felt a momentary rush of humor as she pictured herself: head to the ground, rear saluting the sky. _If only those meddling royals could see me now. They'd beg me to not marry their precious prince!_

She stilled her breathing as the shadows of three pairs of feet paused by the door.

"Finally! I thought that crazy gal would NEVER leave!"

"Well, my impatient ignoramus, you must admit that display was worth the wait! Most entertaining." Sophie squirmed in embarrassment.

"I guess so," the first voice replied. "Wow! What an odd bird."

_The second jerk is well-educated, _Sophie reasoned, desperately attempting to ignore the muffled laughter.

A pair of the feet suddenly stepped forward, planting themselves confidently. "Come on, you two," the second man whispered fiercely. "All our planning is finally coming to fruition. Time to get rid of Prince Howell and embrace the common man! To the Western Waterway!"

The sound of the footsteps gradually retreated, leaving a very disturbed young maiden to think in the ensuing silence.

... someone was planning to assassinate the prince ... and only she knew about it.


	5. The Thorny Road of Honor

**Chapter 5: _The Thorny Road of Honor_**

Sophie pressed herself against a wall, feeling her ears pound, the blood rushing up inside her head. The assassins' voices carried within the twisting passageways…

"Okay, so we takes it left from here – ouch!" announced the uneducated assassin loudly, earning him a smack from his better-educated counterpart.

"Hush, you blaring banshee! You want to announce to the whole world where we're going?"

"Bah, what 'world'? You mean these walls here?"

"Actually, you'd be surprised to know -"

"Shh!" interjected a third voice, immediately silencing the two. The air went silent.

Sophie held her breath fearfully. Had she been discovered?

After a moment, she heard shuffling: the sound of footsteps drifting deeper down the corridors. Sophie shakily released her breath and peeled herself from the wall, carefully stalking after them.

_Why am I doing this?_ she wondered. She had probably asked herself that question a hundred times in the last fifteen minutes. _This isn't my duty. My duty is to report what I heard, waltz back to my room, then spend the next several hours waging an internal war as to whether or not I'd rather have Prince Howell assassinated than married to me._

Hiding behind that door, Sophie had clearly heard those assassins' plot: "Time to get rid of Prince Howell and embrace the common man!"

To tell or not to tell? Well, there was no question. Despite Prince Howell's level of conceit, and the sticky predicament of her engagement to him, she knew she'd be tormented for years to come knowing she hadn't prevented a murder.

Secondly: report the incident to the Royal Guard and go her way, or identify the assassins first? Well, with no description, the Guards would have gone to the busy waterway and perhaps missing the assassins entirely among the crowds. But if they knew what their targets looked like, then it was practically guaranteed that the right men would be arrested...

Sophie considered her hastily formed plan: follow the assassins, identify them, report to a guard, and hide until everything blows over.

_'Oh yes, and don't get killed,'_ she mentally added to her list.

Sophie cautiously approached a corner and peered around it. The passageway was dark, only intermittently lit by wall lanterns and the occasional tiny window. These passageways had once been used by servants to travel unseen from room to room - running errands, changing linens, kissing pageboys ... But sixty years ago, an invasion from the kingdom of Strangia had left the Ingarian palace in a wreck. The palace had to be rebuilt and fortified, turning it into a castle. New servants' passageways were constructed, and the old ones were no longer needed. Few even knew they existed.

She tiptoed across the old stone, delicately weaving in and out of the shadows cast by lantern light. In her left hand she held her boots; the heels had clicked too loudly. Her toes felt cold through her stockings. She had to resist a giggle. If her sisters saw her now, they might believe she'd gone mad!

_Maybe I have..._

Sophie paused at a curve in the wall and peered around it. Up ahead, the men were standing before two large entryways. She glimpsed orange hair and a blue sleeve before they disappeared through the left shadowy doorway.

"Blast," she muttered. She was hardly getting any closer to revealing their identities.

Sophie waited. After about a minute, she stalked forward and glanced up at the old engravings over the entrances. The left was labeled as The Western Waterway. The right was too faded to decipher. She followed the men through the left door.

Sophie struggled not to chatter or slip as a chill air swirled around her ankles. The going now was down, down, down, the old sandstone steps spiraling deep into the dark. Fungus flowered on the walls, faintly glowing green in the shadows. If the assassins happened to turn around, she vaguely wondered if her green dress would camouflage against the fungus.

Sounds of scuffling echoed up to her ears. Her heart thumped nervously in her chest. She prayed no noise would reach them as she stretched down her chilly feet, one after the other, to press the next step, her skirts clenched up in a white-knuckled hand.

_No fear,_ she scolded herself. _No fear! Slow, you silly pumping thing in my chest. It was my own impulsive idea to follow the assassins. I am walking the thorny road of honor now._

The Thorny Road of Honor ... The names of men and women who had chosen to walk that same road flitted through her mind.

_Socrates - a remarkable man in the land of Athens!_ Sophie recalled, going down four more steps. She had read about him in a book, brought from an Other World by one of the previous Royal Wizards. _Poisoned with hemlock by his own people after defending them for decades against tyrants!_

Would the assassins jab her with a poisoned tipped dagger and watch her slowly die, her body found centuries later by some poor exploring archaeologist? She would die honorably, with defiance in her eyes!

_Philip the UnDeterred - scientist of Ingary! Unbelieved by his people, infiltrated one of the Strangia war machines waiting in ambush and bombed it from inside, the explosion warning his people just in time!_

Would she tell the guards of the assassins' plot, only to be met with jeering laughs and dismissive waves? She would assail the backs of the enemy, forcing them to confess their wicked schemes!

_Joan of Arc - the White Lily of the land of France, burned at the stake for taking up the sword in defense of her fatherland!_

Sophie's wild imagination stumbled to a halt. Rather uncomfortably, she realized that the Thorny Road of Honor generally ended in death...

"All right, we're here!"

The loud whisper stopped Sophie in her tracks. The assassins were literally just a few feet away around the bend! She waited with bated breath as they sketched out their plan.

"Okay, so this is what I'm thinking," began the third, usually reticent voice. "You two will curve right and prepare the boat while I am reporting to the Dock Master."

"Wait a sec, I ain't preppin' no boat!" one voice hissed. "It's bad enough getting on the water!"

"Besides, they'll recognize you," the more sophisticated one countered. "You're not exactly disguised, you know. They'll wonder why someone of your position is bothering with a minor noble's affairs."

"What do you suggest?"

"We switch. You prepare the boat, and we go to the Dock Master."

"But both of you can't go. Nobles usually let their servants take care of that ..."

"Yeah, _servants_ usually take care of the dirty work," the uncultured voice muttered smugly. "I like the sound of that. Off you go, cur. We have important preppin' work to do."

The sophisticated one - a noble, Sophie finally deduced - snorted hotly. "Let's see how you like the sound of me ripping that finely crafted pseudo-stache off your lip!"

The sound of scuffling echoed in the passageway, cut off by the sound of two quick slaps.

"Owch! What'd ya hit me twice fer? He was the one rippin' my face off!"

"Well I can't very well hit him, can I? Come on, let's go."

Sophie tried to sort through what she had heard through their bickering. So they were planning to sail away from the castle. But why? To gather reinforcements?

The bickering faded as a creaking noise, followed by the sound of rushing water, alerted her ears. The Western Waterway! They must have reached the end of the passageway.

By the time the door clicked shut, Sophie was already sitting on the steps retying her boot laces.

Fresh wind blew against her face as she cautiously opened the door. No sign of anyone. Carefully stepping out into the open, Sophie shut the door and marveled at it for a brief moment. Apparently, the old servants' passageway ended on a side-path that wound just out of sight of the waterway. The door had been carved from rock, and its handle was very difficult to see from the outside. A rocky overhang stretched overhead, shielding the entrance from sight of passing ships.

The path sloped downward and curved around the cliff side. Sophie followed it and in a matter of seconds was staring down at the docking pier. A sizable crowd of people milled about, casting off, landing ships, exchanging the latest news from all corners of the kingdom. While the Western Waterway wasn't the most popular port, it certainly got a good bit of attention.

And not forty feet down in front of her, on their way to the docking pier, walked three men: the assassins.

One was pompously dressed, with vibrant orange hair, and a second one was appropriately outfitted for an outing. The tallest man was the oddest to observe. He was dressed in blue peasant's garb, and trailing behind the others as if he were a disobedient hound being punished.

_He is less than a hound, that scoundrel - and the world will know it soon enough!_

* * *

><p>Howell scratched at his ear.<p>

_Someone must be thinking about me_, he mused, his mouth stretching into a beautiful smile (not too beautiful, of course, lest the citizens on the dock instantly recognize him).

He knew that people thought of him constantly. They couldn't help themselves really. But Howell's sensitive ears only tingled when someone's thoughts towards him were particularly passionate.

Admittedly, that was most of the time.

"Psst! Wipe that goofy grin off yer face quick-like!" Cal hissed over his shoulder. His fake bushy mustache wobbled as he spoke. "We're about to split, and yer lookin' a bit too happy fer that gloomy-grub posture!"

"Psh, at least I'm only pretending to be a grub … you're just hiding your natural state with slapped on fancy-pants attire!"

"I suppose I'd better get ready to sleep in a dungeon tonight," Michael commented.

Howell and Cal sheepishly turned back to the mission. They knew what Michael was saying without saying it, and if the arguing got them caught, he would never let them live it down.

Or more accurately, they _would_ live … with him dangling it over their heads for all eternity.

Of course, this realization didn't stop Howell from stepping on Cal's cape.

"Aaaand split!" Michael whispered as Calcifer stumbled forward.

The prince snickered and glided past them. _Almost there_, he encouraged himself. _Beautiful commoners of May Day, languish no longer! Your prince in peasant clothing is coming to you!_

He moved his long legs across the planks, weaving himself through the crowd.

_You are not ants_, he silently told the merchants, the sailors, the travelers that passed him. _You are fish. A school of fish, swimming complacently through the water. And I am one little blue fish, passing among you unobserved ..._

He lithely set his foot down and slinked around a group of tourists, feeling pleased with himself. His natural grace and years of dance made even slinking an art-form.

_Like that woman in green, who quacked like a duck_, he wondered, amused. _The way she moved through the ants was an art unto itself as well. I wonder what I could learn from her..._ That is, if he ever saw her again.

An old fisherman chose that exact moment to push a cart across the narrow pathway. Rather than rudely rushing through the closing gap, Howell stopped and waved him across. He glanced around the port, hoping people would take note of this magnanimous gesture. But his peasant-disguise ensured that the only watching him were the fish in the cart. Dead and dying fish. He got a good look at them as they inched past ... at their disconcerting, glazed eyes … so trapped and hopeless.

"All right, hurry along, good fellow," Howell addressed the fisherman, tapping his foot impatiently. The old man had been at it for fifteen seconds at least; surely that was more than enough time to push a fishy cart out of the way! He could see the Dock Master waiting for him just twenty feet away, all prim in his little box, waiting. And Michael and Calcifer were undoubtedly pacing and worrying themselves to madness. The world had inched to a crawl, and it was all because of this little old man and his fish and his taking his sweet time.

_Wait for me_, he pleaded in his mind, gazing earnestly up at the sunny blue sky. _Wait for me, lovely maidens at the May Day Festival! Your prince is coming! He is merely...in a smelly predicament._

"Halt!" someone yelled behind him.

Howell snorted. "Don't tell him that," he muttered under his breath. "He's slow enough as it is!"

"Halt, you in the blue!"

"Wait, can you tell him that when he isn't moving?" someone called back.

_'You in the blue'?_ Howell repeated in his mind, feeling his ears begin to tingle again. Slowly he turned around.

People on all sides were scrambling out of the way as Royals Guards shoved past them, straight in his direction. With a swallow, he observed the automatic weapons in their hands, also pointed in his direction. Having been born with no small intelligence, he knew better than to assume their menacing stares were for the old fisherman behind him.

After all, the fisherman was wearing brown.

_Well, this is an interesting turn of events_, Howell thought, his eyes drinking in possible escape routes. Using magic was out of the question, so he'd have to do this the old-fashioned way. Perhaps overturn the apple cart to his right, or duck into the group of tourists on his left. Unable to prevent it, excitement lifted a small smile at the corners of his lips. Just like old times.

And then he saw her.

Up on the hill, standing beside a guard, was the woman in green. Even from a distance, Howell felt her eyes piercing him in smug determination, the look of a diamond shining through the rough.

_Well what do you know_, Howell mused, gripping the apple cart and watching as the red and green orbs scattered across the ground. _The little mouse is a spy._


	6. What the Old Man Does Is Always Right

**Chapter 6:** _**What the Old Man Does Is Always Right**_

"Don't worry, marm. Those wannabe assassins won't get to you," the young guard assured Sophie. He puffed out his chest, "Even criminal scum respect the uniform."

"Then thank heavens your uniform is here," Sophie replied evenly. Her intent gaze followed the chase occurring below. She desperately tried to ignore the snake of worry thrashing through her innards, but it got worse every time she remembered the tall, blonde assassin glimpsing her on the hill.

_He saw_ _me. He knows I told. _

She abruptly turned towards the guard. "Do you know if any of those uniforms come in my size?"

* * *

><p>Howell watched the regulation metal-toed boots thud past his hiding spot.<p>

_Wow. They really want me at the Royal Feast tonight. _

He paused, thinking of his father's many lectures about the responsibility of princehood and respectable methods of mingling.

_Or away from May Day_, he admitted.

**CLANG! CLANG!** The metallic call for reinforcements snapped Howell out of his reverie.

The prince heaved a sigh of disappointment, expelling his expectations and weeks of planning along with it. The King clearly knew of and opposed their plan. Even if he and his friends made it to May Day, the enjoyment would be drained by the constant looking over their shoulders.

"Dratted old man," he muttered. "Always ruining my fun."

The prince cautiously peered around the wheeled cart. _One, two, three, now! _Timing his movements with waves of the crowd, he hobbled from crate to crate of shipment. Poking his head out between two, he checked to see if the coast was clear and then pinned his gold hair ribbon to the warped wood.

Howell could only hope Cal or Michael would see the ribbon and recognize it as their pre-arranged signal: _Abort Mission. Reconvene at Headquarters.  
><em>

As he cautiously made his way back to the castle, Howell scowled. _This is all that woman's fault! _

* * *

><p>"Soldier! We almost have the blue-clad assassin cornered. We need everyone to cover potential escape paths."<p>

Grateful to be rescued from his stuttering attempt to explain why women couldn't wear the Royal Uniform, the soldier saluted Lady Sophie - avoiding eye contact - and rushed after his companion.

"'twas only a joke," she muttered. "Taking me so seriously. Must be the hair." She tucked a loose strand back into the tight bun as her eyes followed the swarming soldiers.

Without the constraining presence of another, Sophie's movements grew more animated as she reacted to the unraveling scene beneath her. When the guards got close, she smiled in anticipation. When the man narrowly escaped, she hissed in frustration. And when the villain used a trundling trinket cart to double back behind the guards, she gasped in outrage.

"Behind you!" she yelled at the guards. "He's getting awaayy ..." the last word dwindled into nothingness as she realized that no one could hear her over the hubbub.

At least, no one could hear her from up here ... on the hill ...

_Well then. _With that simple thought, Sophie gathered her skirts in her hands and charged downhill, angling to arrive between the fleeing villain and the hapless soldiers.

Whether it was her strident tone or the rare sight of a lady's ankles that caught the attention of the guards, she did not know - did not _want_ to know. All she knew was an intense feeling of gratefulness for not having to chase down an assassin in heels and her third-best dress.

At the bottom of the hill, she pointed the attentive guards in the villain's direction. "He went. The other way," she gasped, holding her side. "I saw him. Jump. Top of. Yellow box."

With an efficient salute, the guards ran as one after the malcontent.

"Well I certainly am not missing this," Sophie mumbled, taking a deep breath and then jogging after them as best she could. "Most exciting day. Of my. Life. And I. REFUSE. To sit on the side. Just because. I can't do. Something silly. Like breathe."

Her effort rewarded her by bringing her stumbling figure to the yellow crate as the guards surrounded it.

Her chest swelled with pride (and the need for more air) when she thought of the vital role she had played in this drama. _If this were a book, now would be the time when I would say something rather grand and important ... _

The young guard next to her must have shared similar thoughts for he politely nodded at her. "Lady, if you would do the honors?"

Trying to hide a small smile of pride - 'twas not befitting of her station - Lady Sophie nodded graciously and then called up to the crouching blonde figure. "Come down peaceably, sir! You are surrounded."

Sophie felt a thrill of power when the figure hit the crate irritably and then started to climb down the side. Sealing the deal, she imperiously commanded, "Guards! Arrest that man for conspiracy to assassinate -"

"Prince Howell?!" the head guard gasped.

"Yes." Sophie and Howell answered at the same time.

The lady and the villain look at one another in confusion.

"I beg your pardon?" the lady asked with raised eyebrows.

"Assassinate?" the villain incredulously queried at the same time.

Seeing his face for the first time, Lady Sophie tilted her head and allowed her eyes to traverse his profile. The vibrant eyes. Strong but delicate nose. The cocky smirk worn only by the vain.

Reeling at the possibility, Sophie turned desperately to the young guard. "Quick," she said, holding out her hand. "A coin! A coin!"

She snatched it from his fumbling hands and then held the stamped metal next to the grumpy face of the blonde man.

"Oh dear."

* * *

><p>The small man twisted his hands as he peered around the entrance to the throne room.<p>

The King of Ingary, who had issued strict orders to be left undisturbed while he read reports, was lounging on the throne. The sideways, one leg in the air, one leg on the ground kind of lounging.

_The most __regal and imperious kind of lounging, of course, _the man hastily corrected himself. Whether in deed or in thought, he strove to be loyal to his sovereign.

The approaching noise of an energetic crowd stirred him back into action. Taking a deep breath and expelling it in a whimper, the red-velvet clad figure strode into the middle of the throne room and stiffly bowed. He froze in the humble, bent position - hoping his stiff back would keep the inevitable angry barrage from piercing his heart. His wife was forever teasing him about his tender heart.

An entire torturous minute dragged by, with only Silence to spell its passing. Sweat stains dampened his shirt - _'tis so warm in here ... __surely the King's angry gaze is beating upon me. _The small man dared to glance up at his dread sovereign.

The King of Ingary still lounged. He moved not, save to twirl a strand of his beard.

_A most regal and imperious twirl. _Hoping the king's forgiveness for disturbances was equally magnanimous, the small man cleared his throat. Twice.

The King languidly turned his head. His gaze fell upon the small man. His eyebrows raised. "Yes, Adviser Trumbell?"

Trumbell fidgeted and replied: "Your Maje-, Highn-, Yo-Your Royal Ingary - you see there's been a -, well a group, a crowd, mob, ummm people." He giggled. "It's rather funny actually." His face morphed into a mask of horror. "Not that I think that sort of thing is funny, of course, Yo-Your Highness. I would never, I mean, I don't ..."

The King slowly raised his hand, effectively silencing the babble. "Your business, Adviser Trumbell?"

"Well, it's about the Prince, Your Highness." Forging ahead despite the mixed look of understanding and weariness that crossed the king's face, Trumbell tried to explain the transpired events, with the lady and the threat and the prince's mysterious presence in the marketplace.

He had shared what little he knew and was stuttering a string of unnecessary apologies when the Royal Announcer ran into the room, mere seconds before the ever-growing crowd, and shouted: "The Royal Prince, Lady Sophie, and - and company!"

"He recognizes his own son," Howell said witheringly as he passed the announcer.

Two steps behind, Sophie murmured a quiet thank you as she passed the announcer.

The King (_sitting in proper royal fashion,_ Trumbell sighed in relief) narrowed his eyes with interest.

The voices died down to a murmur as the people wondered who would first explain events to the king - and everyone else, for that matter.

The weight of his duty upon him, the head guard stepped forward and snapped a salute. "Head Guard Cranmer reporting, Your Majesty." He paused. "Actually, I'm not even sure where to begin, sir, but ..."

The King smiled through his gray beard and kindly interrupted the man. "Adviser Trumbell has already sketched the outline for me, Head Guard Cranmer. I think it would be best if I heard the details directly from my son and the lady, don't you agree?"

His relief hidden beneath his formality, Head Guard Cranmer saluted again and said, "I do, Your Majesty," before bowing and stepping back into the crowd.

The people in the room nodded and thought, _How clever our King can be! _

"Alone," he further specified.

The people filed from the room, quietly grumbling at how unfair and overly secretive their King could be.

Sophie looked longingly over her shoulder as the doors closed behind the last reluctant subject - _The__ people are gone. I am left, mere mortal, in the presence of the Great Ones of our age. _Her breath caught at the thought. _  
><em>

"Ugh, I am covered in dirt, thanks to your overzealous guards, Father. I really should go wash up before something horrible happens to my skin."

_A Great One and his immature offspring, _she revised.

"I suggest you concern yourself with your royal reputation more than your skin," the King said mildly. "I fear this latest escapade will tarnish the kingdom's view of your stability."

Howell waved his father's concern away as one might shoo a fly. "The court scribes are quite talented. They can spin the story to say I was learning more about my subjects or kingdom economics or something."

_Or helping to train the guards on evasion techniques, _Sophie thought in amusement. _Hmm, that's not bad. Maybe I should ingratiate myself with some court scribes as a past-time. _

"Son, even graver than your skin or reputation is your character. Princes have many responsibilities. There are proper methods for ..."

"I know this lecture, old man," Howell interrupted.

The King's two bushy brows climbed high on his forehead.

Sophie began to feel uncomfortable. _Should I be here when the Prince is lectured like a child_?

"I am not old."

Howell did not seem as surprised by the King's response as Sophie. He replied saucily, "Father. If you were clean-shaven, I could understand your denial. But you let that bushy forest-creature rest on your face as a testament and constant reminder of your age. I am afraid there is no defense for you."

Sophie couldn't contain a slight gasp at the prince's dismissal of "The Beard." It was practically a national treasure, and indeed was the sole subject of the popular Ingrarian ballad _Beard over Beer. _

Unfortunately, that short breath of air was enough to draw the attention of the two royals.

_How does she do that dratted disappearance thing? _Howell thought irritably. _Only three people in the room, and she makes us forget her. _

_Interesting, _the King thought. "Do I seem stodgy and old, my dear Lady? You can tell me the truth."

"And should," Howell said. "To actively feed a harmful delusion such as his would be borderline treasonous."

The word of _treason _drifted in the air. In spite of the banter, Sophie knew she should choose her next words carefully. Everyone knew that the moods of Royals were as flighty and unpredictable as the path of a cone-wind, and with far more extreme consequences.

Lady Sophie curtsied and demurely said, "Stodgy? Perish the thought, your Highness! Every time you appear in the kingdom's eye, you seem more and more charming. For it is with people as it is with stories - they become better as they grow older."

"Ah, an apt choice." The King leaned back in satisfaction. "Really, a very diplomatic answer. The lady is saying that you, my son, should kiss my bearded cheek and say, _What the old man does is always right!_" He leaned forward and tapped his cheek with a finger. "Go on then, my boy."

The King of Ingary and Lady Sophie looked at one another knowingly. They did not chuckle aloud, both were too well aware of propriety to be so free. But they did exchange that secretive, amused look known to all who belong in the fellowship of readers.

Howell looked between the King and Sophie, trying to figure out what he had missed. "She didn't say that at all, Father."

The King sighed and said, as if to apologize, "I did try to educate him properly, my dear. You must believe me on that count."

Sophie smiled and replied, "Education is a diffuse responsibility. It does not rest on one individual."

The King nodded sagely. Then he turned to the prince who was trying to hide his interest behind his pouting. "I like her," the King said nonchalantly. "I approve of her as your future wife."

Prince Howell and Lady Sophie reacted at the same time: "Always trying to marry me off!" "Yes, about that mistake -"

The King ignored his son. "Mistake, Lady Sophie? There has been no mistake."

Avoiding the prince's bewildered gaze, she firmly replied, "But of course there was, Your Highness. I mean, me? And with your son?"

Rather than taking her clearly reasonable point, the King simply smiled and said, "Who better? After all, you did save him from assassination."

"From myself," the prince scoffed. "Is that what this is all about? I apologize, Lady Sophie, but that's hardly an achievement worth bragging about." He turned pointedly to his father, "Or worth offering your kingdom and son in reward."

Rather than be offended, Sophie rushed to the support of the prince. "No, you are quite right, Prince. He is quite right, Your Majesty. Whatever the reason, there are plenty of ladies out there far better suited to the task than I. It would be like directly trading a horse for a bag of apples," she explained, referencing the story again.

"Ah, but don't you remember the title of that tale about the old man, the horse, and the bag of apples?"

Seeing where he was going, Sophie was reluctant to answer. "Well, yes. But, Your Majesty. This is a different matter entirel -" The King tilted his head, stopping her mid-word. His insistent gaze eventually forced the answer out of her: "_What the Old Man Does is Always Right." _

He leaned back in satisfaction. "You would do well to remember this, Lady Sophie. No mistake was made on so important a matter."

The Prince turned to Sophie and asked the really important question: "Wait - task? Did you just call marriage to me a task?"

"Oh, I apologize," Sophie said absentmindedly, still trying to think of a clever response to the King. "I meant to say burden."

The words echoed through the throne room, allowing each of its three members to hear 'burden' again and again, in all its glory.

Howell's mouth gaped in outrage.

Sophie's eyes widened in horror.

The King doubled over in laughter.

Regaining his composure, the King folded his hands and leaned back in the throne. "Oh yes. I am quite confident in this match."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Don't blame my writing partner, blame me! The ball was in my court and I just stared at it ... for almost a full year. - the Short of It _


	7. It's Quite True!

**Chapter 7: **_**It's Quite True!**_

Did you hear?

Haven't you heard?

It's shocking!

Dreadful!

I can hardly believe -

Marriage!

Who?-

The Prince, he -

His Majesty wouldn't!

Conspiracy...

There is no doubt about it. It's quite true!

* * *

><p><strong>Ninth Hour<strong>

That grand city of Kingsbury - Ingary's pride and center of fashionable aplomb - was in chaos.

Social chaos.

The kind where rumors abounded, and every man's opinion became a sagacious treasure.

The people flocked in the streets to hear the latest news. The paper boys raced atop the cobbled stones, crying, "Pendragons! Royal Feast Cancelled! Murder! Read it up!"

News traveled as far as Market Chipping. Initially, the renowned May Day festivities had swept everything under the rug. But now in the morning light, with the excitement waned and drink to a drip, people were beginning to hear of last night's happenings.

That's when it all started.

An orchard farmer gripped the handles of a cart and relayed his tale to his apt listeners.

"Yesterday evenin'," he said. "I was at the Western Waterway, mindin' me own business, when suddenly this bloke grips 'old of me cart and scatters me apples across the ground! I turn 'round and - by my granny, if I ain't shocked to see the pretty prince himself!" His audience gasped. "Oh yes! And out of my eye's corner I see..."

"...a lone assassin!" a gypsy three miles away cried to her troupe. "Cold and green she was, standing on a hill staring down at the prince. She began to race down the hill..."

"...and was joined by two brutes. Big as boulders!" said a dock master at the Western Waterway. Next to him nodded an old man in brown.

"Aye, saw them too. Dressed up as silver as fish they were! Bless me, I thought they would smash our prince to bits!"

"Those six tattooed villains roared and rushed our Ingarian prince!" announced the barrister to the pub.

An officer boasted. "Dozens of soldiers leapt to his side!"

"The Crown Prince fought them off single-handedly!" the toy-maker told the wide-eyed street children.

A buccaneer winked. "Pretty prince-ling turned tail and ran."

"And that green killer," declared a butcher. "She slid through the mob like a knife through butter."

"Silent as a ghost -"

"Invisible as the wind!" whispered a sailor.

Together, the lawyers mused. "No one remembers her face."

"The Witch of the Waste?"

"A lover spurned?"

These sworn testimonies flew. As for gossip about the mystery bride and sudden marriage declaration? Well. That was a different matter altogether.

And it was only the ninth hour of the morning.

* * *

><p><strong>Tenth Hour<strong>

_Tk._

_Tk._

_Tk._

The maid's clicking heels were silenced as she hesitated upon the threshold of Prince Howell's apartments. Her fingers grasped the breakfast tray as she scanned the furnishings, the shadows, and especially the curtains.

She glanced back.

The castle staff nodded encouragingly, motioning for her to go on.

She swallowed.

_Tk._

_Tk. _

Her heels glanced the carpet, step by step. The refreshment table was near the center of the common room, and beyond that: the prince's private chambers. The maid made wide berth around a mound of clothes and set the tray upon the table. She wiped her palms against her apron and looked back again.

The staff were holding their breath. They leaned forward.

The maid lifted a steaming teacup off the tray and bore it like a sacrificial offering to the prince's bedroom door. The teacup shook in its saucer as she raised a trembling hand to knock.

_Tok_.

"Your Majesty?"

_Tok_. _Tok_.

Silence.

Several moments passed with thickening tension. The maid lowered her hand and faced her companions, horror mounting on her features.

The door swung open behind her.

"You knocked?"

The castle staff screamed and scattered.

The maid whirled around, shrieking into Prince Howell's stunned face at the sight of a crimson stain seeping through the front of his white night shirt. The tea cup crashed to the floor as she ran, Royal Guards leaping out of her path while she cried, "It's true! He's been killed!"

"Your Highness!" the guards yelled. They yanked Prince Howell into the common room while the others stormed his bedroom. Immediately, Howell was thrust into a chair and the nearest article of clothing compressed against his chest. Someone called for a physician. Furniture began crashing to the floor as the guards hunted the missing assassin.

Howell sputtered and sprung from his seat.

"What in the blazes is going on?" he roared. Five pairs of hands immediately thrust him down again.

"You mustn't move, Your Majesty!" a guard barked.

"You'll aggravate your wound, sir!" said another.

"Wound?" Howell repeated, bewildered. He winced as curtains were yanked open and sunshine flooded the room.

The Court Physician rushed in and knelt by the Prince's side.

"Hold him still," he ordered the guards on either side.

"Botheration!" Howell yelled. He smacked their hands away. "I'm not wounded! It's -"

"I caught him!" someone crowed, dragging Calcifer from the dressing chambers. Calcifer bit his hand. "Yowch!"

Head Guard Cranmer burst into the common room with Sir Michael close at his heels. "Status report!" he snapped.

Salutes flew like birds.

"Assassination attempt, sir -"

"The prince is bleeding -"

"Searching -"

"SILENCE!" Howell bellowed, shoving the Physician aside and standing to his feet. All activity ceased. The prince looked around, nostrils flaring, and peeled the compress off his heaving chest. "I am NOT. BLEEDING," he asserted, tugging his red-stained nightshirt down to reveal a torso devoid of any injury.

Everyone stared.

A maid fainted.

Howell winced again and covered his eyes, lowering himself back into the chair.

A noise sounded from the bed chamber, and a young guard emerged holding an object.

"Sir Cranmer?" he said with a straight face, "Uh... I think I found the culprit." He held it high: within the grasp of his hand was the slender neck of an empty wine bottle.

The prince groaned.

* * *

><p>The events of the past twenty-four hours had not proven favorable for Howell.<p>

When Michael and Calcifer discovered Howell's symbol of retreat - a gold hair ribbon pinned against a crate - they grew alarmed at the commotion exploding across the docks. Upon investigation, they witnessed a platoon of soldiers escort their prince and, oddly enough, that duck woman, back to the castle. Clearly there'd be no reconvening at Headquarters.

They kept low and out of the dungeons. Then they heard the latest news: the King had cancelled the Royal Feast.

Word was it was due to the extreme hysteria, for the protection of the people: strike two for the prince. But privately, the King pulled Howell aside and intoned his true reason: "If our celebrations are not good enough for you," he said with a fixed smile, "then they are clearly not good enough for anyone else. Oh. By the way, son. You are under house arrest."

Strike three.

One of the biggest celebrations of the year, and the Prince was confined to his quarters with nowhere to go. Radiance, dancing, festivity! - now mere dreams, the flickers of a candle. No maiden would call him "Handsome and Mysterious Stranger" this night.

Calcifer, indifferent to all but the lost food, crashed in Howell's closet that night. The next morning, Sir Michael was finishing reps when a distress alert came from the prince's chambers.

Surveying the chaotic state of the Crown Prince's common room, Sir Michael shook his head. "These rumors are getting out of control."

"You're tellin' me," Calcifer muttered. "Last I heard, the government shut down and I'm a blood-thirsty fire demon."

Michael watched a servant lift an overturned chair and place it beside a settee. "That's all? Well, apparently I'm dating the assassin's sister. Did you know that the prince is going to marry the Witch of the Waste?"

"You don't say!" Calcifer replied, stalking towards the refreshment table to see what the maid left on the tray.

Michael heard a snuffle. He turned to see Prince Howell hunched atop an overturned bureau, wrapping a blanket tight around himself as he sipped strong tea.

"I hate getting angry," Howell mumbled.

"I know, Your Grace," Michael replied sympathetically.

Howell sniffed again and swallowed more tea. "You know what else I hate?" he continued. His bottom lip quavered. "Not sleeping in. My morning has been ruuuuuuuuined!"

Sir Michael rolled his eyes and walked to the crystal windows. "Certain you don't want me to open these, Your Highness?" he asked, grabbing hold of the curtains.

"Treachery!" Howell gasped, throwing the blanket over his face. "My own comrade! Guards, come back - the true villain's in here!"

"Your Highness?" a servant politely said with a bow.

"What?"

"Well... We mean you no inconvenience, sir, but the staff would soon depart to afford you your privacy. Might we restore your present, er, perch to its place of order?"

Howell lowered the blanket to reveal a face aghast. "Of course not!" he responded, drawing himself up nobly. "Can't you see I'm emulating a great work of art?"

Meanwhile, on the other side of the room, Calcifer carefully lifted the silver lid off Howell's breakfast platter. His eyes gleamed at the sight of cold bacon and eggs.

"Hey shove off, you gluttonous fiend!"

"Oh have a heart, Howell," Calcifer whined. "You know I keep this castle runnin'. Besides, with assassins about, ya need someone to test this food for poison."

He slurped down an egg and licked his fingers. "Mmm, none here." _Smack_. "None here..." _Gulp_. "Wait -" Calcifer belched. "Wup! False alarm!"

Howell snorted and jumped off the bureau with a flick of his blanket. "Pitiless mutton grubber! I hate cold eggs anyways," he griped, making a beeline for his closet. A servant intercepted him en route to a beautiful stash of clothes.

"Oh, what is it _now_?" Howell asked impatiently. Honestly, he had hardly the time! There were outfits to choose, a bath to take, breakfast to skip, plans to concoct, and not to mention a house arrest to utterly ignore. Sometimes he wished he had never made that vow to Madame Suliman. In a heartbeat, he'd say a spell that'd have him strolling through Market Chipping, having the time of his life...

"There is a letter for you, Sire," the servant was saying.

"Ooh, for me?" Howell said brightly, snatching it. His countenance darkened at the tingle of Suliman's magic. _Speak of the devil._ His eye swiftly caught the broken wax seal.

"Where did you find this?" he questioned sharply, brandishing the open letter before the servant's paling face.

"That's the letter they delivered to you yesterday," Michael explained.

Howell calmed immediately. Tampering with official documents was no mild crime in Ingary, and the consequences were severe. Arresting someone would be a bother, not to mention he hated that second-hand feeling of reading opened mail. The servant bowed and hastily helped his companions re-position Howell's recently abandoned pedestal.

"What color were the Royal Messenger's gloves?" Howell inquired, sliding the letter out of the envelope.

Michael thought for a moment.

"White," he concluded, "with golden embroidery."

Howell sucked in a breath and yanked taut the parchment. "She's going to kill me!"

"Who is?" Michael asked quizzically.

"Suliman," Howell cursed, eyes devouring the script on the page.

His jaw dropped.

Calcifer saw it and cackled. "Well, if this ain't the first time I ever saw you speechless!"

Howell ignored him, twisting the letter around and upside-down, his fingers pulsing with bursts of magic. Sir Michael noticed a lingering servant and tried to signal warning, but Howell pushed past him to the windows, holding the letter up to the morning sunlight. It fluttered teasingly among the rays.

Howell stomped in exasperation. "I cannot _believe_ she's actually doing this to me!"

"Doin' what, Howell?" Calcifer asked. The prince started marching towards him. "Uh, Howell? What'd she do?" The red-head cringed at the projectile letter slung towards him.

"Read!" Howell commanded. "Go on, satisfy your heartless curiosity, drink from the cup of my distress!"

"Um yeah, sheesh. Whatever you say, boss," Calcifer mumbled, tentatively retrieving the parchment.

"Your Highness!" hailed the very last servant from the doorway. They all turned. She was a matronly woman, short, with a name that quite escaped Howell. Barbara or something. She gave the prince a grand curtsy and touched her hands together. "Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but I can hardly hold it in me any more!" She beamed ear to ear. "Congratulations on your engagement! It's about time you were married!"

The room stilled.

Michael blinked.

Calcifer gaped.

Howell marched right up to her.

"How..." he demanded, peering at her face, "do you know that I'm engaged?"

"Bertha's" smile faltered. "Why... it's been all over the palace since yesterday!" she explained. "Invitations have been sent and everything! Don't they tell you anything?" she asked, glancing past the prince's shoulder at Sir Michael and Calcifer.

Howell spun around. "You _knew_ about this?" he accused.

"Now hold up!" Calcifer sputtered. "We are greatly confounded this present moment!"

Bertha's mouth formed a little "o" shape. She hadn't been expecting this. Maybe a pat on the back, or a pay raise for her thoughtful comment (after all, the Royal Family had a great propensity towards flattery). But apparently, the prince didn't want his citizens to know about his engagement.

_Scandalous!_ she tutted. She scurried when Sir Michael dismissed her from the common chamber. Despite his warning look, he was too late. Bertha rubbed her hands together after the door clicked behind her. _Just w__ait til the rooming staff hears about this!_

"And you didn't even have the decency to tell me," Howell wailed, pacing the floor.

"Tell you what? That you proposed? Ain't it the other way around?" Calcifer fizzed.

Howell's mind flashed back to the previous day in the Great Room. The teeming mass of nobles had been gossiping about something... letters? Invitations? That's right, and also a "bride", and his princely title... Great Waters of Coast!

He jabbed a finger at Calcifer. "Read it!"

"Fine," scowled Calcifer, shoving the letter under his nose. "_To the Crown Prince... and Secretive Sovereign of Ingary, the Lady Slayer Howell- "_

"Stop it, scoundrel, that's not what it says!"

"Yeah well, whatever! _I have chosen yer bride as promised - or warned, depending on how you per... perceive the sitchiation._" Calcifer looked up. "Oh."

"See?" Howell fumed. "Suliman's finally made good on her threat! Bother it all, I don't have time for this! I am a bachelor, ladies and gentlemen, not a tied-down, domesticated house cat. This is simply too much handsomeness to be hoarded by one woman!"

He turned indignantly and tread the other way. "But the reality is far worse. My father is simultaneously trying to marry me off to other women! You should have seen him in the throne room." He paused. "Calcifer, read the rest of it."

"Uh... _Y__ou are to be present in the Royal Conservatory at precisely twelve o'clock noon this followin' day. __Being late or causin' any inconvenience would be most unwise... _Hey, that's today!"

"The rest of it!"

"_Sincerely, __Head Sorceress Suliman, __as authorized by His Royal Highness, King of Ingary_." Calcifer shrugged. "Uh, that's all."

The prince ran his fingers through his blonde tresses and thought hard. The letter had been authorized by his father the day before, which meant the King knew about and approved of Suliman's decision. However later, in the throne room, his father had offered him in marriage to the green lady. Howell remembered him specifically saying, "I approve of her as your future wife."

Ah.

So the King wasn't being spontaneous after all.

"The lady in green," Howell said. "It's her."

Michael looked at him with astonishment. "The duck woman?"

"That crazy stalker gal?" Calcifer sputtered incredulously.

His friends' disbelief echoed his own. Although the Crown Prince had wondered little about what an actual committed marriage might look like, he had somehow assumed that his wife would be naturally fashionable, glittery, and outspoken.

Which was the antithesis of this woman.

She wasn't a princess or a duchess; in fact, Howell barely recognized her, which made him suspicious. The prince knew the face of _every_ woman in the palace, with the exception of some servants and visiting nobles. Tight hair bun, plain dress or not, that pretty face and figure were not ones he would easily overlook.

_It's probably because of that blasted invisibility thing she does_, muttered he to himself, recalling trailing her through the crowd. But so many unanswered questions! Why did they choose her? Was she a spy? Is that why she followed them through the tunnels?

"And why did she accuse me of an assassination attempt?" he sorted out loud. "Father's words didn't surprise her in the least! How come?" He huffed with displeasure and folded his arms. "Did you know she tried to talk my father out of it? Is she out of her senses? Why on earth would she do that?"

"Because maybe she's smart enough not to jump inta that kinda crazy," Calcifer retorted.

The blonde threw himself into a chair and rolled his eyes. "Eager to congratulate me, I see."

"Did you catch her name?" Sir Michael inquired, ever faithful to steer conversation on course. Howell raked his mind. Her name reminded him of that girl in Montalbino, the eight-year old engaged to the duke.

"Lady Josephine! Wait. That's not it."

"Lady Carrie?" offered Michael.

"Daphne?" suggested Calcifer.

"Lady Isabella?" said Howell. His mind switched over to a day in the Conservatory, a fallen handkerchief, and a certain lady in his arms...

Sir Michael cleared his throat. Howell shook the memory away and instead envisioned that moment at the Western Waterway. A slope. A hill. She stood at the top, staring at him with glittering, determined eyes.

Howell smirked.

"Lady Sophie," he said at last. Her name floated in the air: feminine, strong, intriguing. Standing alone by the window, Michael slowly turned red.

"Hey, yer lookin' a little peaked there," Calcifer winked. "Know the gal?"

"Actually... yes," Sir Michael stammered. "She's Lady Martha's eldest sister."

"Lady Martha?" Howell said with interest, springing to the edge of his seat for information on his mystery bride. "And she is... ?"

"His sweetheart," Calcifer grinned.

"You have a sweetheart, Michael?"

"It's complicated," Michael said in embarrassment. "But, I had no idea that Lady Sophie was behind all this! It seems so unlike her."

Howell threaded his fingers in front of his mouth. "So you know her then," he said, gazing at his friend. "Are you familiar with any of her habits?"

"Not very," Sir Michael confessed. "I mean, Lady Martha told me that she likes to read books, avoid parties and such. Maybe decorate some hats. I've personally seen her in the Royal Library once or twice."

Three words echoed in Howell's mind: Books. Royal Library.

Clockwork going _tick_, _tock_, ticked behind his furrowed brow. Michael and Calcifer exchanged looks.

"Calcifer Kindle," Howell drawled, gracefully shifting to his feet. "Have a maid fetch hot water for my bath. I have something to do before 12 o'clock _precisely._"

Calcifer rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say, pretty boy."

* * *

><p><strong>Eleventh Hour and Half-Past<strong>

Freshly washed tresses slid across a hyacinth-scented cheek. A red cape swished around a spruce figure, whose long legs levitated silently across ornate marble floors.

Howell hovered to stillness behind a bookshelf and glanced around the Royal Library. He didn't want any of the Royal Bookkeepers catching him by surprise. He crept around a pillar and gazed the full length of the library to the slim figure standing at the other end. Her staid gray dress faded into the dappled backdrop of dust and tomes. Lady Sophie stood and fingered through page after page, her brow tight, her lips pale. Her braid trailed behind her as she reached for another book.

His mouth slipped into a smile. He watched her set the book down with a frown and disappear down another aisle, searching for who knows what at this point in the game. That's what he planned to find out. He waited a moment before magicking himself to where Lady Sophie had stood a minute before. Glancing around, he lifted the book and peered at its cover. _Anthology of Ingarian Law, Post-Strangian War_. Howell arched an eyebrow and flipped through its pages. Why on earth was she looking through something so boring?

"Well, at least you can read," a wry, feminine voice sounded behind him. **  
><strong>

Howell smiled and set down the tome, turning. They locked gazes. _Looks like she hasn't slept a wink_, he observed, taking in the shadows beneath her eyes. _All because of me_, he prided himself vainly.

She opened her mouth to say something. The prince swiftly closed the distance between them and plucked the book from her hands.

"There you are, sweetheart. I've been looking all over for you."

She gasped and looked up with startled brown eyes, her features a collage of bewilderment and irritation.

A guard near the entrance spotted him and alerted his companions with confusion. How did the prince get in here? Wasn't he supposed to be on house arrest?

Howell's smile grew as the lady's expression settled into suspicion.

"Don't look now, but I'm being followed." He side-stepped and linked his arm around hers, his next words silencing her protests.

"I have a proposition for you."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Ooh sorry, the Short of It! We shall enjoy discovering how you handle this. ;) - the Long of It_


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